Page 27 of This Love is Under Construction

Morning arrives with the particular awkwardness that follows emotional revelations—the kind where you both know something happened, but neither of you knows how to name it. We orbit each other like wary planets, maintaining careful distance while pretending everything is normal.

Owen showed up at seven—earlier than usual—which says enough.

He’s clearly as eager to escape his thoughts as I am.

We’ve been working for nearly an hour now, trading only what’s necessary.

“Pass the tape measure.” “Mind the wet paint.” “Electrical inspection’s at two.

” Functional. Professional. Painfully impersonal.

The flip plans hang between us like a ghost—my old, clinical calculations for renovating and selling, the tidy exit strategy back to LA.

A reminder that, on paper, I once saw this house as a transaction.

And Owen found them right after showing me those sketches—me, curled up in the window seat like I belonged there.

The timing could not have been worse. Before we could even speak about it, he got a call about his father. Something with physical therapy. He left in a rush, expression unreadable except for the part that wasn’t—hurt. Plain and sharp.

Now we work in tandem but out of sync, movements choreographed to avoid contact. I’m caulking baseboards; he’s installing light fixtures. The distance between us isn’t just physical—it’s the width of everything unsaid.

“I’m going to check the bathroom tile delivery,” he says at last, the first voluntary sentence of the morning. “Should’ve been here by now.”

“I’ll finish this section,” I reply, focused on getting the caulk line just right. “Then I’ll prep for paint.”

He nods and walks off toward the front of the property. As soon as he’s out of sight, I let out the breath I didn’t know I was holding. Finn, clearly unimpressed with our strained dynamic, abandons his post and trots over to sit by my feet.

“At least someone’s still talking to me,” I tell him, rubbing behind his ears. “Though, let’s be honest—you’re mostly here for the bacon I slipped you at breakfast.”

Finn tilts his head, those soulful eyes giving me the kind of judgment I really don’t need right now.

“I know. I should just tell him those plans were from before—before Maple Glen became more than a stopgap. Before the beam came down and the window seat went up. Before the dance in the rain.” I sigh and rest my forehead against the wall. “Before him.”

The problem is, I’m still figuring it out myself. When did this place stop being a flip and start feeling like a home? When did these people become more than friendly faces in a small town? And Owen—when did he stop being just the contractor?

I don’t have a tidy answer. Only the growing certainty that the woman who wrote those notes no longer exists. She’s been demoed and rebuilt—same frame, stronger foundation.

But Owen doesn’t know that. What he saw looked like proof that I’m exactly what he feared: another person passing through, playing house in a place I never meant to stay.

I finish the baseboards, rinse my tools, and check the time. Nearly ten. I haven’t posted today’s update yet, and the TV crew and sponsors are all watching the countdown. Chaos or not, the content machine must run.

I curl up in the window seat—still cushionless but structurally sound—and write a caption that sticks to progress, not emotion:

T-minus 16 days until the TV crew arrives!

Final countdown on this chapter of the renovation journey as we race to complete finishing work.

The window seat is structurally complete (though still needs cushions—taking suggestions!), bathroom tile arriving today, and paint colors finalized.

So much happening, so little time! #NewBeginnings #WhatsNext #ThisLoveIsUnderConstruction

I attach a carousel of photos—the window seat, the prepped walls, the cabinets going in. It’s a strong update, and the hashtags are standard, pointing to the next phase of the project. Still, as I reread it, I wonder what Owen might read between the lines.

I text Abby next:

Crisis mode. Owen found the original flip plans—like, the ones from before I ever got here. Now he thinks I’m still planning to sell and head straight back to LA. I have no idea how to explain that I’m not that person anymore without it sounding like a line.

She replies almost immediately:

FINALLY. I was genuinely worried you two would slow-burn each other into oblivion. Just tell him you’re staying. And use your actual words, Penny. No renovation metaphors. No jokes. Words.

I wince. She’s not wrong. He left right after finding the notes and hasn’t brought it up since. Now we’re locked in this performance of professionalism, pretending there’s nothing unresolved.

Classic avoidance,

she texts again.

Someone needs to put on emotional grown-up pants. You’re both allergic to honesty.

I barely have time to roll my eyes before Owen returns. His face is unreadable, but his body language screams shutdown. He heads straight to the electrical panel and starts checking breakers with more focus than necessary.

“Tile’s delayed until tomorrow,” he says eventually. “I’ve adjusted the schedule.”

“Thanks.” I tuck my phone away. “I posted the daily update. Sponsors are excited.”

He doesn’t look at me. Just nods and keeps working. The silence between us stretches, stiff with all the words we’re refusing to say.

I open my mouth—maybe to ask how his dad is, maybe to start explaining—when my phone rings. Adele Hutchinson. Of course.

I answer, switching to speaker. “Hi, Adele. You’re on speaker with me and Owen.”

“Penny! Our favorite renovation story!” Her voice is full of cheer. “We’re locking in our shot list for filming and had a few ideas for the reveal.”

“We’re still on track, despite the water damage setbacks,” I say smoothly. “What did you have in mind?”

“We’ve been reviewing your posts—audience response is amazing. The arc from ‘drunken auction disaster’ to ‘found family’ is resonating hard. We’d love to lean into that for the episode.”

Owen’s hands still, but he doesn’t speak. His eyes flick toward me, unreadable.

“What kind of direction are you thinking?” I ask, wary.

“First, a more dramatic reveal when the house is finished. Maybe we do a styling setup and film your reaction walking in? Second, more personal elements. You’ve mentioned those postcards—maybe we hang them somewhere? Visually show the journey to ‘home’?”

I nod slowly, already sensing where this is heading.

“And,” Adele continues, “we’d love to show more of your collaboration with Owen. The stoic local builder and the impulsive LA transplant? It’s gold. The chemistry, the growth—it’s real. We’re not asking for anything fake, just leaning into what’s already there.”

Owen sets the tool down. Quietly. Deliberately. And walks out the front door.

The sound of it closing is soft. But it echoes like a slammed one.

“A few things,” Adele continues. “First, we’d like to stage a more dramatic reveal moment when you first see the completed space. Maybe have you wait outside while we do some final styling, then capture your genuine reaction walking in?”

“That seems reasonable,” I say. “Though to be clear, I’ve been involved in every step of the renovation. It’s not going to be a surprise.”

“Of course! We just want that emotional ‘wow’ moment. Second, we’d love to include more personal elements—your journey from LA PR executive to small-town renovation influencer.

Maybe display some of the postcards you’ve mentioned in your posts?

Create a visual representation of your finding home after years of moving around? ”

I feel Owen stiffen across the room. He doesn’t say anything, but I catch the subtle shift in his shoulders.

The postcards are mine—I’ve talked about them online, sure—but I’ve never shared them with him.

They’re from every place I’ve lived without staying, a breadcrumb trail of almosts and not-quites.

“We could discuss that,” I say, careful to keep my tone neutral. “What else?”

“The big one,” Adele says, her voice shifting into the practiced brightness of someone who knows she’s about to test a boundary, “we’d love to feature more of your partnership with Owen.

The comments on your posts are full of people responding to your dynamic.

The stoic local craftsman and the impulsive city girl finding common ground through renovation—it’s storytelling gold. ”

Across the room, Owen doesn’t move, but everything about his stance changes. His back straightens. His jaw sets. His grip on the screwdriver tightens until his knuckles turn white.

“That’s not really part of the renovation story,” I say slowly. “Owen prefers to focus on the craftsmanship rather than the personal aspects.”

“But it is part of the story,” Adele insists. “The house is a metaphor—it mirrors your personal growth. It’s the emotional heart of the narrative. We’re not suggesting you fake anything. Just lean into what’s already there.”

Owen places his tool on the table with precision and walks out. The front door closes behind him—not loud, not dramatic, but with a quiet finality that echoes through the half-finished space.

“Adele, I have to call you back,” I say, already moving toward the door. “We’ve got something to handle on-site.”

I end the call and step outside. He’s standing at the tailgate of his truck, hands braced against it, head down. He doesn’t look at me as I approach.

“Owen,” I begin carefully. “About the TV stuff—we don’t have to do any of that. I can tell them no. You don’t have to be part of something that doesn’t feel right.”

His voice, when it comes, is tight but not raised. “Is that what this is to you? A narrative? Another PR campaign?”

“No,” I say quickly, startled by the question. “Of course not. The renovation is real. What I post—it’s just sharing the process.”

He turns, and when he looks at me, the frustration is there, but so is something deeper. Disappointment. Hurt.

“And what’s the story exactly? You fix up the house, play small-town for a few months, find some charm in rustic carpentry, and then move on to the next project when the clicks slow down?”

“That’s not fair,” I say, feeling the heat rise in my chest. “Those plans you found were from before. Before I got here. Before I knew anyone. Before?—”

“Before what?” he cuts in. “Before you realized Maple Glen made great content? I saw your post today—’new beginnings,’ ‘what’s next.’ It doesn’t exactly scream permanence.”

“That was about the TV deadline, ” I say, my voice climbing despite myself. “The renovation schedule. That’s all.”

He doesn’t respond right away. When he does, it’s in the flat tone of someone who’s already done the math and doesn’t like the outcome. “Right. Just like those profit margins were theoretical. Just like Veronica’s move here was just temporary. Just like her reasons for leaving.”

His words sting. The comparison burns. “I’m not Veronica,” I say, sharper than I intended. “And you’re not being fair. One document from two months ago doesn’t define what I want now.”

“Then what do you want?” he asks. And he means it—his voice isn’t angry now, just deeply, excruciatingly honest. “Because from here, it looks like you’re building a brand, not a home. Writing a story with a clean arc and a convenient out.”

The accusation hits too close to my own fears. That I am just passing through. That I’ve never stayed anywhere because I don’t know how. That I’ll always leave before someone has the chance to leave me first.

“That’s not true,” I say, but even to my ears, it sounds like a line rehearsed too many times. What proof do I even have? A few social media captions and unfinished drywall?

“I care about this place,” I try again. “I care about this house. About Maple Glen.”

“And when it’s done? When the episode airs, and the crew leaves, and the inbox fills with other offers? What then?” Owen doesn’t wait for me to answer. “What happens when staying becomes harder than walking away?”

“I don’t know, ” I snap, finally losing the last of my practiced calm. “Is that what you want to hear? That I don’t have a perfect plan? That I’ve spent my entire adult life running before anything could stick, and now I’m trying to figure out what it means to stay ?”

His expression shifts—not softer, but deeper. Like he hears me, but doesn’t know what to do with it.

“What I want,” he says, quieter now, “is honesty. Not spin. Not some carefully packaged version of what you think I want to hear. Just the truth.”

I inhale, and for a second, I don’t know if I can give it. But then it comes, shaky and real.

“The truth is, I bought this house on impulse, thinking it was a project. A flip. But it stopped being that somewhere along the way. I didn’t expect to care.

I didn’t expect you. Or Finn. Or any of it.

And that scares the hell out of me, because I don’t know how to want something that feels like it could last. I don’t know how to trust it. ”

His silence is heavy. The air between us charged with all the things we’ve been avoiding.

When he finally speaks, it’s low. Controlled. “I can’t do this again. I can’t invest in someone who’s still got one foot out the door.”

“I’m not—” I start, but he lifts a hand to stop me.

“Your plans say otherwise. Maybe they’re old. Maybe your heart’s changed. But I’ve been here before, Penny. I’ve heard the speech. The hesitation. The ‘I’m trying’ from someone who was already planning their goodbye.”

“And that’s it?” I ask, heat and hurt rising in my throat. “You’re writing the ending for me now?”

“No,” he says. “You already wrote it. I’m just finally reading it.”

He walks to the truck. Stops just long enough to say, “I need to check on my dad. The painters will be here at one. The list for tomorrow’s work is on the bench.”

Then he gets in and drives away, the crunch of gravel and the fading sound of his engine the only answer to everything left unsaid.

I stand there, heart pounding, watching the road long after he disappears from view. The irony tastes bitter. I’ve spent my whole life leaving before someone could ask me to stay. But this time, I wasn’t the one walking away.

He was.